


well this is easier now

by oneworldaway



Category: Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I felt like they deserved an OT3 tag, Pre-Series, banter and (mostly happy) feelings, partly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:05:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneworldaway/pseuds/oneworldaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not all that different from before, when they’d come home from missions all over the world to find Birkhoff waiting for them, ready to talk their ears off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	well this is easier now

**Author's Note:**

> I spent most of June rewatching Nikita from start to finish, and it remains one of my all-time favourite shows. This seemed like the easiest way to get myself writing again. I love these three _so_ much, though I think it's obvious I'm particularly fond of Nikita and Birkhoff's dynamic.
> 
> Title is from "Not Miserable" by Frightened Rabbit, the song that plays at the end of "Shadow Walker" in season 2.

“Safe” is a feeling she’s never really known. Maybe there were times she felt hints of it, when her mother would brush her hair at night - so gently, almost like a silent apology for all the bad she would not be able to protect her from tomorrow - or even, sometimes, in those early days, when Amanda would do the same. And there was Carla, and the promises she made her that she could almost, _almost_ , believe. But the morning would always come, and Nikita was never really safe at home, or at Carla’s place, or at Division. She understands that now, even as she disembarks from a train in Belgium, alone on the other side of the world, on a mission of dubious legality for the people who snatched her from death row.

She may not feel safe, but she has found a sense of security, of confidence in her own abilities. She feels the gun at her side, the one strapped to her leg, the knife in her boot, and all of them help her to breathe easier, but none so much as the knowledge that she can use them, and use them well. And even without them, she’d still have her fists, her feet, her teeth. She’s always had those, and she’s never been afraid to use them. Her training has only helped her to hone those skills into something even more lethal. 

But there’s a feeling that comes over her, even as she pursues her target out of the train station and onto the street, when the crinkle of static in her ear reminds her that she’s not _totally_ alone here. She couldn’t call it a sense of safety, exactly, unsure what that would even feel like, but the smiling look that lights up her eyes is completely involuntary.

“Still got eyes on our girl, Nikki?”

She takes them off her target only long enough to roll them at Birkhoff. “If by ‘our girl’ you mean the weapons smuggler I’m about to take out, then yeah, still following her,” she quips over her comm. “Target is heading east away from the station.”

Faintly, she hears the sound of Birkhoff typing away at his keyboard - or maybe it’s just that she knows he’s doing so. “She’s definitely headed for the Marlberg Hotel,” says Birkhoff. “Her buyer always stays there when he’s in the city.”

“I’m on it,” she replies, keeping pace with the target from a safe distance on the busy street.

“Man, this chick’s a real badass,” Birkhoff mutters, half to himself. “Took out two of our guys last time we sent a team after her.”

“Wasn’t Ericson team leader?” Nikita recalls. “Probably his cockiness that got them killed.” Rather than join her in razzing one of their less amiable fellow agents, Birkhoff remains silent on the other end. “Birkhoff?”

“Just be careful, okay?”

That feeling she can’t (or won’t) name works its way through her again. “Whatever, Nerd,” she says, trusting he’ll pick up on the warmth in her voice. 

The street is so packed with tourists and commuters alike that it’s easy for Nikita to slip through the throng unnoticed. The crowd keeps anyone from looking at her, and the silencer attached to her gun prevents them from hearing the single shot she takes at her target’s back. She’s slipped away with the dead smuggler’s briefcase of illegal weapons prototypes in tow well before anyone notices what’s happened. “Some badass,” she thinks aloud, even as her stomach momentarily lurches.

She’s halfway up the street when she feels a pair of eyes on her.

Without missing a beat, Nikita heads down the nearest alleyway, never turning around until she knows they’ll be safely hidden from any prying eyes. In one swift motion, she whips out her arm and spins around, knocking down her would-be assailant with the briefcase. _Of course_ , she thinks, getting a look at the burly man as he pulls himself off the ground. _Our smuggler’s silent partner_ is _back in the game_.

Instinct takes over, then, as she blocks his first swing. The briefcase makes for a pretty good weapon itself, but she moves better without the extra weight, discarding it in favour of using her fists. A knee to the groin slows her opponent down, but it’s not enough to neutralize him, and there’s no time to reach for one of her guns. And just when she seems to be gaining the upper hand, two more figures enter the alleyway, drawing her eye. _Great. The buyer’s goons are here_.

She makes use of the momentary distraction to slam the partner’s head against the dumpster, finally knocking him out. But the buyer’s security detail draw their guns, and her own is still holstered.

A bullet ricochets off the dumpster, distracting the men just a moment before one of them goes down. Nikita makes use of that moment to draw her own weapon, firing at the other. Michael steps into the alley, gun at his side, with a look on his face that’s something like relief, and Nikita can’t help but smile.

No, this isn’t safety, exactly. But it’s nice knowing that she’s never _really_ alone.

 

  

~

 

 

She always sparred with him two days after getting back from a mission. The first day was always reserved for debriefings, followed by a respectable period of rest; but the next day she’d be back in that bunker, in her training clothes, pulling Birkhoff out onto the mat. “You could use the refresher, Nerd,” she’d reply to his futile protests. “Plus, the exercise is good for you." 

“You know what’s good for me?” he’d say. “ _Not_ being dragged away from my screen before I’ve even finished my first Red Bull of the day.”

“Your _first?_ ” she’d ask, incredulous. “Forget angry targets and angsty new recruits. It’s the caffeine that’s gonna kill you.”

Then they’d get to work, Nikita always handing his ass to him - but Birkhoff getting stronger, fighting back harder every round, until, by the time they were both worn out, he could _almost_ hold his own against her. Almost.

But really, that was all Nikki, too. It was the way she pushed him, and something about that look in her eyes, steely determination mixed with something like concern. When she had that look, Birkhoff knew she meant business, and there was no point in giving her any less than his all.

 

 

 

His Red Bull gut’s been getting worse since she’s been gone.

It’s only been five weeks since her escape, but Birkhoff’s pretty sure he’s never going to see Nikita again. He knows how good she is; if she was anyone else, they’d have found her within 24 hours, but she isn’t. She’s Nikki. She never would’ve done this on the fly, either - no, she would’ve been planning this for weeks, months even. All that time, she knew she was going to leave, and he never suspected a thing. He’s not sure who he’s angrier at, Nikita or himself.

He never really believed she was dead, though. It was just too convenient, dying in an accident so far away from home like that, and nothing like Nikita. She was the best of the best, after all. Granted, Percy couldn’t see all the signs Birkhoff could with the help of Shadownet, like the old target’s accounts she’d obviously gained access to and cleaned out (that French weapons smuggler had been _loaded_ ), but they all knew Nikita, and they all had their suspicions. They set their traps for her at her father’s house, at Daniel’s grave, not one month after she disappeared.

But the fact is, she’s never coming back. Birkhoff knows she’s smarter than that. Still, he finds himself down in the agents’ training quarters every few days, now, beating the crap out of a punching bag and pretending he doesn’t miss his old sparring partner like hell.

It’s almost a shock when Michael appears, dressed in his customary suit, the slant of his mouth more downward than ever. Birkhoff’s not sure he ever saw him smile before Nikita showed up. He definitely hasn’t seen it since.

Wordlessly, Michael takes hold of the punching bag, and Birkhoff resumes working out his frustration. “Look, Mikey, I know you’re not gonna say it, so I might as well,” he pants out between punches. “It sucks what Nikki did. And I’m mad at her too. But she’s not coming back.”

Michael remains stoic, his jaw just slightly twitching in response to Birkhoff’s words. “You’ve gotta accept it, man,” Birkhoff adds.

“Is that what you’re doing down here by yourself all the time?” Michael fumes. “ _Accepting_ it?”

“Look,” says Birkhoff, losing steam, his next punch barely making an impact. “I know you two had some kind of complicated, will-they-or-won’t-they kinda thing going on, and I know you care about her--”

“You don’t know _anything_ ,” says Michael, letting go of the punching bag to step right in front of Birkhoff, staring daggers at him.

“Mikey,” says Birkhoff quietly, “if she’s really gone, you’re the only friend I’ve got left in this place.” He watches Michael’s face soften almost imperceptibly. “I get it, I do. But there’s nothing we can do now. She made her choice.”

They stand there for a long moment, the weight of Birkhoff’s words pressing down on them both near unbearably. “Yeah,” Michael finally says, turning and marching swiftly out of the room. 

But later, when he strides into ops for an update on one of his agents’ ongoing missions, he rests a hand on Birkhoff’s shoulder, so briefly it might not have happened at all - but Birkhoff gets the message nonetheless.

 

 

~

  

 

Birkhoff is all over them when they first get back from Colombia, rambling frantically about seven or eight different things that Michael doesn’t quite catch. He’s too drained from the whole experience, still in a sort of quiet daze after the flight home, he and Nikita having barely spoken since he made it out of Ramon’s house. It hasn’t been the time for words, but rather just soaking up each other’s presence, basking in the closeness and wondering at the fact that they are here, together, alive. Birkhoff picks up on the air between them before too long, visibly chilling out a little and shuffling off to do something or other with Shadowbot while they get settled in.

In truth, it’s not all that different from before, when they’d come home from missions all over the world to find Birkhoff waiting for them, ready to talk their ears off. For his part, Michael can appreciate where that comes from, what must run through Birkhoff’s head while he waits for them on the other end of their comms. It’s different now, because when they get home, he and Nikita go to _their_ room, trace their fingers over each other’s newest scars, patch each other up. But when they’re finished, changed into clean clothes and feeling like they’re on solid ground again, he leaves their room and finds Birkhoff, just before he can run off to pick up their pizza without asking what toppings _they_ want first. (It’s happened before.)  

By the time Birkhoff gets back with the food, Michael finds he’s starving. “Hey, don’t you touch those jalapeño poppers,” Birkhoff warns as Michael helps him unload everything onto the kitchen counter. “Those bad boys are all mine.” Even as he rolls his eyes, he can feel a smile creeping its way onto his face, in spite of his best efforts. Birkhoff doesn’t seem to notice, but Nikita definitely does, warmth and love written all over her own features.

He loads up a plate for her - he knows everything she likes - and as he carries it over to the living room couch, a memory washes over him. Nikita had only just graduated to field agent, moved into her own place, and Michael went by to check on her, see how she was settling in. (That was all it was, he told himself, having a hard time buying it even then.) What he found was a vaguely annoyed Nikita entertaining a perfectly content Birkhoff, flopped onto her couch, a slice of pizza in one hand and the TV remote in the other. “Seriously, Mikey, they really have the new agents these days slumming it,” said Birkhoff by way of greeting - ironically echoing, a little, throughout the huge apartment. “Nikki only gets, like, 200 channels. I can get her the rest, but come on.” He took a huge bite of his pizza as Nikita stepped by to let an amused Michael through her front door. “Oh, my favourite comics shop is around the corner,” Birkhoff explained around a mouthful of pizza. “Thought I’d swing by.”

“And make himself right at home, apparently,” Nikita muttered, standing closer to Michael than he’d expected her to. A jolt ran through him, but not unpleasantly.

“And he brought food?”

“The place across from the comics shop had a deal,” said Birkhoff, taking a swig of beer. “You want some?”

And that was how serious Division agent Michael wound up having a far from serious pizza night with Nikita and Birkhoff, sitting on her chic leather couch getting pizza crust crumbs on his crisp suit, scoffing along with Nikita at Birkhoff’s terrible jokes and feeling more at home than he had in longer than he cared to think about.

Nikita reminded him of that night when they first moved into Birkhoff’s place. “I had leftover pizza for breakfast that whole week, just because I could,” she told him, snug in his arms, just after he turned the bedroom light out. “I felt like a student. I never...thought I’d get to live that life.”

Michael held her closer, because she didn’t have to say the rest of it. He knows just how complicated their relationship with Division is. It made them both into these people, living mission to mission, fighting so hard to set things right; but Division saved Nikita’s life. And without it, they never would have found each other.

He knows that now, too, as he looks from Nikita starting in on her dinner to Birkhoff joining them in front of the TV, changing the channel from the news to some ridiculous celebrity poker game. “Oh, no way,” says Nikita, laughing as she stretches to take the remote away from Birkhoff, but he holds it out of her reach. “Nuh-uh,” he says. “I paid for the TV, I get to pick the channel.”

“The TV you paid for with stolen money?” asks Nikita. 

“Bought that pizza with the same money, and I don’t see you complaining about _that_ ,” he retorts.

“Hey,” Michael whispers into Nikita’s ear, when Birkhoff turns the volume up on the TV and sits back in his chair. “I love you.”

Her smile is life-giving, and so is her kiss. A second later, they’re ducking out of the way when Birkhoff makes a sound of disgust and tosses the remote at their heads. “I’m trying to _eat_ , here, guys.”

“Thanks, Nerd,” says Nikita, grabbing the remote and changing the channel, ignoring Birkhoff’s protests.

For once, Michael doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile.  


 

 


End file.
